Through the Pensieve
by I'm proud of you
Summary: Draco can't take Harry's silence anymore. Instead of telling each other, they show each other. Warning: contains hints of slash, and some mature/upsetting elements. Contains both Harry and Draco's POV


[[ [[Draco]] ]]

Harry was having one of his night terrors again. He writhed and twitched, jerking around as though he were in real physical agony. He ground his teeth, he moaned, he muttered, he yelled. And then as per usual, he awoke with a jolt, trembling and covered in his own sweat, and I reached out and stroked his back, murmuring soothing words into his ear, kissing his hair, and staying up with him until he was calm enough to go back to sleep.

This happened every single night without fail. The lack of sleep didn't bother me; I was usually awake anyway. No, what bothered me was that Harry never told me what his dreams were about; not that I couldn't guess. It had been four months since he had defeated Lord Voldemort, and it was only natural that Harry experience some symptoms of post traumatic stress, but he refused to speak of it to me and that made me feel somewhat put out. However, I still performed my duties honorably.

Harry Potter was tall, gorgeous, dashing, kind, polite, funny, and passionate, a Quidditch legend, and the savior of the Wizarding World ten times over. Everybody in our world _adored _him. What's not to love? But I knew very well that there was so much more to him than that. He was also moody, troubled, reclusive, stubborn, and had an annoying habit of drumming his fingers on any surface he could reach whenever he wasn't paying attention. Dating Harry Potter wasn't as glamorous as everybody assumed it would be.

Of course, those weren't any of the reasons why I was dating Harry Potter, though they were all wonderful (and not so wonderful) attributes of his that I adored. I owed Harry my life, my sanity and my heart. Loving him was the _least _I could do, after all that he had done for me.

Everyone knew that Harry and I had been rivals since day one, and our relationship only became worse over time. I went from being his schoolyard bully to his mortal enemy. He had even come close to killing me in our sixth year; I still have the scars to prove it. People ask me now if our relationship was out of the blue or if either of us had had feelings for each other prior to the end of the war. Some imagined that we had been lovers all along and were keeping it a secret, hiding from the rest of the world; wearing our attitudes towards each other like masks. I told them that I didn't know the answer to the question, though that was a lie. I had always been attracted to the boy, despite how much he had truly annoyed me in the beginning. How or when the attraction turned to love, I couldn't say, for I didn't quite admit it to myself until after the relationship began.

And then the night of the Dark Lord's downfall came and the Feindfyre spread

throughout the Room of Lost Things. After all that I had put him through, Harry could have easily left me there to perish, but he did the unthinkable and came back for me. Suddenly I was on the end of his broom, clutching onto him for dear life; the deadly flames just licking the ends of my robes. And then we were safe in the corridor. Crabbe was dead and the blow hit me like a boulder. However, I was alive, though shaken, and I had Potter to thank for it. We had stood there, trembling and gasping and clutching our chests until, in a moment of gratitude, grief, appreciation, and seven years of pent-up raw emotion, I kissed him. There's only so much two people can go through together before something like that happens, you know? We clung onto each other desperately, not wanting to end what may have been our last moment together. It was with a painful kind of resolve that I watched Harry walk away. I waited anxiously for news of him.

When Voldemort's high piercing cackle sounded through the Hogwarts castle claiming that Harry Potter was dead, I cried with the rest of the crowd gathered in the Great Hall. Likewise, when they saw that Harry was alive, my heart hammered with joy and relief, just like them. And when Voldemort fell and was no more, I rejoiced, though subtly, with all the others.

But unlike everybody else, I saw Harry when he thought he had a moment to himself and he let his guard down. The light in his eyes that had always mesmerized me appeared to have been snuffed out. The ache in his heart was clearly expressed on his face, if you knew what to look for. I found him sitting outside by himself the next day and approached him, asking what I could do to help. His answer was just one word: stay. And after everything that we had been through in the past seven years and the past twenty-four hours, well, how the hell was I supposed to leave?

Four months have gone by, and I haven't gone anywhere yet.

I held onto the grief-stricken Potter as he cried that day, rocking him as he trembled, and whispered the same sort of words that I usually whisper now when he has one of his nightmares. He gave me this look, you see, like nobody had ever held him like that before, and in the end I think that's what did it for me. In my need to protect him, I found myself kissing him again, though not as violently and desperately as the night before. Potter had saved my life and I was resolved to return the favor in any and every way that I could.

Our relationship didn't officially begin until a little while later. Our lives didn't just fall together as easily as it does in the stories. We kissed, so what? I'd kissed plenty of girls in the past and some boys too, and hardly any of those turned into relationships. I didn't woo him, didn't take him out for romantic dinners or seaside strolls, didn't buy him flowers, didn't write poetry or love letters, and I didn't seduce him. But I came to him every night when he needed protecting, because nighttime was the worst for him. He could fake it all he wanted during the day for the public and the press and all of his friends, but come nighttime or any other time when Potter was really, truly alone, he crumbled. That's where I stepped in, sweeping down over him like a mother bird and protecting him under my wing. He didn't seem to understand why I did it, but nevertheless, he clung to me desperation, till it became routine. He expected me to be there and I needed to meet his expectations. There was no way around it.

"Why are you doing this?" he cried one evening, several weeks into my nightly visits. I continued to stroke his back.

"You need somebody to take care of you." I said quietly, planting a small kiss on his mouth, "And I think I'm doing a pretty decent job at it."

It was the first actual bit of conversation we'd had. Until then, I had been the only one who spoke; Harry always just sobbed.

"You are," he muttered in response, "But that doesn't explain _why _you're doing it. What's in it for you?"

I could feel my pulse quicken and I had to swallow the lump in my throat before I could answer him. I told him the truth.

"I'm here because I love you, Potter."

"You love me." He repeated flatly; not a question, not an exclamation; just a plain statement.

"Yes."

"Since when?"

I didn't answer immediately. That first time I admitted it to Harry was also the first time that I admitted it to myself. Really, I didn't know how long I had loved him for; just that I did. To me, that was all that really mattered. Harry didn't press too hard for information. He didn't say or do anything to indicate that the feeling was reciprocated either. In fact, he barely said anything at all. But he stopped crying for the first time since I'd started coming to him and I was able to get some food and life back into him, which was a monumental victory for me. Seeing as he was pretty stable by the time I put him to bed, I began to gather my things and put on my coat. Harry spoke again.

"Stay," he said, much like he had the day after Voldemort's downfall. His one-word command had me bound as though I had been Imperiused, though it was all on my own accord that I took off my coat and sat down on his bed again. Harry wanted me to stay with him. How was I supposed to leave him now?

He slept peacefully that night.

Harry usually said one word to me before I left him in the mornings, and that word was _Thanks. _This next morning, however, his words spanned several sentences. I would have rejoiced no matter what at this vast improvement, even if his words hadn't been beyond anything I had hoped for.

"Draco," he called from his bed as I laced up my sneakers.

"Yes, Harry?" I said, surprise audible in my voice. He stood up slowly and crossed the room.

"Will you be coming back tonight?" asked Harry, nervously.

"Do you want me to?"

"Er, yes." He admitted, "I've been thinking about what you said and…" he took a step closer, trying to sort out his words. Clearly, this was difficult for him. I waited patiently, prompting him as needed, until finally, after several long moments of hesitation, he took a tentative step forward, and closed the distance between us with a brief and uneasy kiss. He stepped back, unable to meet my eyes.

"Yes," he babbled, "Well, now that that's settled, I guess I'll just-"

"Now that _what's_ settled, Potter?" I asked, "I've been kissing you for weeks. What makes that one any different than all the others?"

Harry sighed and I recognized it as one of frustration, which made me smile. A frustrated Harry was a cheerful change from a grieving Harry. He ran his hand through his untidy hair.

"You're really going to make me say it?" he asked. I waited.

"Fine," he groaned, "It's different because I love you too Malfoy."

And there it was, out in the open. After a brief confirmation from myself, Harry smiled (a first) and asked me to come back earlier, say in the mid-afternoon? I assured him that I'd return promptly at four.

Harry during the daytime was the complete opposite of Harry at night, or so I noticed; literally like night and day. When I returned to Grimmauld Place at four, he was up and about; away from his bedroom. He smiled, kissing me in greeting, never once mentioning anything about the sudden change in attitude or the way he had been behaving up until that point. When I asked if he was sure that he was alright now, he changed the subject quickly, saying that he "didn't want to talk about it". Of course I understood and I didn't question further. I was here to be whatever Harry needed me to be, and if Harry didn't need me to comfort him, then I wasn't going to do it. I just hadn't imagined him needing me for anything else.

He told me that he had wanted this for a while. In my head, I wondered whether "a while" meant before or after the Feindfyre incident, but I never asked him. I let him ravage my mouth and pull at my hair and leave scratch marks in my back, responding to his enthusiasm without actually having to think. I tried to be careful with him, to not come on too strong, to be gentle with his frail bones and aching heart. But I learned that that was the exact opposite way to go with daytime Potter. He needed someone to put up a fight; someone to rough him up and match his passion bit for bit; someone raw and real who he could cast his hero mask aside for; someone who didn't worship him for being the pretty boy Savior; someone who could know and understand his flaws. For this, I was the perfect candidate. Had I ever acted like I was impressed with the boy? Had I not insulted him incessantly for seven years, pointing out each and every imperfection that I found in him for the world to notice? And as far as putting up a fight went, let's just say that Potter was no match for me, and it drove him wild.

Harry liked it rough and he liked it dirty. He loved the idea of power struggles and fighting for dominance, even though it never really mattered who was on top in the end; Potter just loved a good fight. It might have been an outlet for him, I don't know, but I learned quickly that while Potter was a saucy minx during foreplay, he was a hot-headed _freight train_ in the sack. I was always amazed at how much power that scrawny little git had.

We didn't have a "honeymoon phase" or anything like that, and my pride had nothing to do with it. If it had, then as a Slytherin, I would have never entered a relationship with a Gryffindor; as a man, I never would have dated another man; and as a Malfoy, that man would never be Potter. Besides, when a relationship is based off of _need_ for one another, as opposed to desire or want, the frivolous things don't seem to matter so much. That's not saying that I didn't "desire" or "want" Potter, mind you. By all means, he was the _only _person I desired and being able to have him near me, on me, around me, or inside of me was a privilege that I revered. I never dreamed that I could be so fortunate, so blessed. My romantic notions were there, though unnoticed, and I felt just as silly, light-hearted, giddy, and cheesy as the next newly-formed couple. The rationale for the lack of romance had nothing to do with a lack of feeling or an excess of pride. It just so happened that we fit together better than either of us had expected. Seven years of "keeping your enemies closer" had acclimated us to each other marvelously and we were just as happy to sit in silence as we were to shag like rabbits and gush about how we belonged together.

But after the sun went down and we said our goodnights, everything would change. Harry cried himself to sleep half the time, and had vicious nightmares for the rest of it; the kind that woke him out of his sleep, trembling and screaming, just like always. He wouldn't talk about it, wouldn't tell me a thing, even when I begged him to. He said that I wouldn't understand.

"Try me anyway," I'd say to him, and he'd shake his head.

"I can't."

It became a bit of an issue after a while.

"Don't you trust me?" I finally asked him one night. I had spent the past half hour talking him down after waking from his nightmare and like always, he shut down when I asked what had happened.

"Of course I do," Harry said back to me, "But you just wouldn't understand it, Draco."

"Wouldn't understand? _What _wouldn't I understand?" I asked, exasperated.

"Any of it, really," Harry answered, "Just forget about it."

He rolled over to go back to sleep, but I had had enough. I stepped out of bed.

"No, Harry, this isn't something I can just _forget _about, okay? I've spent every night for the past four months acting like a damn _mother _to you, not sleeping or anything just to make sure that you're okay. I don't even know what it is that I'm comforting you over and you refuse to tell me anything. You won't let me help you. You're just pushing me away."

"It's not like that," Harry urged, becoming increasingly frustrated. He always was rather hot-headed and not very good at talking things over or thinking things through; that stupid, impulsive, quarrelsome prat. Usually, I had a very cool and even temper, which meshed well with Harry's fiery, erratic one, but tonight was different. There was only so much silence I could take.

"Harry, I'm giving you everything. When I found you the day after You-Know-Who was defeated, you were a broken man and I was left to pick up the pieces; each and every last one; and I've done so without complaint because I love you. I want to help you, but you just won't tell me anything. You're keeping things from me, Harry, and there just shouldn't be this many secrets in a relationship. I can't do this anymore."

"No, please-" he began, but I cut him off.

"Try to see it from my point of view." I told him, "Every single night I watch you suffer and I do everything I can to take that pain away, and you let me do it, but you still won't let me in. Haven't you figured out that I'm not going to hurt you yet? Or are you just going to keep using me for sex and for comfort without having the dignity to give me _some _sort of explanation as to why your dreams are causing you so much distress?"

I could feel my own face crumpling at Harry's answering silence. I sighed and then gathered my things, preparing to leave.

"I love you, Potter." I said, "But this just isn't healthy."

Harry didn't say anything; he just watched me go. As often was the case at nighttime, his eyes appeared to be dull and lackluster; void of light and life. They were the last things that I saw before turning on the spot and closing my eyes.

When I opened them, I was back in my own flat, which was dark and dusty. I made my way over to my bed, which I hadn't slept in for four months and kicked off my shoes, grumpily cursing all manners of things: the fact that Harry had never even been to my apartment; that my apartment hadn't been lived in for months; that there certainly wasn't going to be any food in the cupboards when I awoke; that Harry's warm body wasn't next to me under the covers; that I'd have no boy to care for in the middle of the night; and that a full night's sleep wouldn't be appreciated, for I'd much rather have my sleep cycle interrupted by Harry and his nightmares as opposed to remaining undisturbed without him. I slept anyway.

I mentally prepared myself for my typical post break-up routine before I opened my eyes the next morning. I told myself how ready I was to take on the hollow, empty loneliness, the numb apathy, the indignant denial. My usual rebounds were only an owl away if I really felt the need to be with somebody. Besides, break-ups were always a good excuse for indulging oneself. Perhaps I'd start the day with some retail therapy in Diagon Alley? Really, I assumed that this would be just as easy as any other break-up. Four months wasn't such a long time anyway.

I opened my eyes, ready to take on the world as a single man, and I felt my stomach lurch. With my eyes open, all of it was real and all of my break-ups _combined_ couldn't have prepared me for the raw, intrusive, nauseating, gut-wrenching, burning _agony _that was acknowledging the end of my relationship with Harry James Potter. It stabbed at me like a thousand white hot pokers; branding irons that burned the truth onto the walls of my stuttering heart, which had been ripped out of my chest for the world to see. I wanted to scream and sob, I wanted to yell and cry, I wanted to call up my old flings and make myself forget, I wanted to curl up in my bed and stay there for years. This open, fresh, festering wound needed to be soothed fast, and nothing was going to heal it anytime soon.

Numbing it was the next best thing. I found half of a handle of Firewhiskey in the cupboard. That and an unopened jar of pickles was all that I was able to scrape together for sustenance. I left the pickles untouched where they were, favoring a liquid breakfast over a solid one. The bottle was empty by mid-morning. I pointed my wand at the clear glass container and it immediately refilled itself with the amber liquid that was disappearing down my throat as though I had walked for days in the Sahara desert without so much as a drop of water. It should have been more than enough to keep my soul from hurting so much, but every time I thought of him, that burning pain shot into my stomach, sobering me, and I gulped down some more as fast as I could to numb myself again.

This liquid diet went on for eleven days. I never threw up; there was nothing in me to get rid of. I faded in and out of consciousness, coming briefly back to reality at random hours of the day and night for just long enough to pour myself another glass or two and down it immediately. Sometimes I changed things up a bit and smoked a bowl instead. Either way, within moments, I was set back into a numb kind of stupor. It worked every time: I couldn't even remember what it was that I was trying to forget; just that I had to keep drinking in order for things to stay that way.

I stopped getting out of bed after a week and took to urinating in a bucket that I was keeping on the floor next to my nightstand. I still hadn't eaten anything but I was too weak to go look for food and too smashed to care; nearly two weeks of constant drinking had that effect. My vision was blurry and I was sure that I couldn't have spoken even if I had wanted to. I couldn't remember the last time I showered and I questioned whether or not I still had a liver. My father would have disowned me if he had seen me, and I was sure that my friends would have dropped me if they had ever witnessed me like this; that was something I'd bet money on. I vaguely wondered when a friend or family member was going to show up at my place to check on me. It seemed like something they ought to have done, but no. My sole visitor on that eleventh and final day of incoherence was none other than Harry Potter.

"What the hell happened to you?" he said, appearing suddenly at my bedside, "You're a mess, Draco."

Assuming this was just another drunken Potter hallucination that was threatening to sober me up; I reached over to my nightstand and grabbed the bottomless bottle of Firewhiskey, muttering to myself. He snatched it from me and I stared at my hand, as though waiting for it to appear again. These alcohol-induced mirages had done a number of wacky things the past week or so, but none of them had ever taken my booze away from me. I wasn't sure what to make of it.

Harry seemed to figure out what was going on. He pointed his wand at me and muttered something under his breath, and all of a sudden, I was sober, though I felt like I'd been hit by a train. He handed me a glass of water.

"Do you even know what day of the week it is?" he asked quietly. I racked my brain.

"You got me, Potter." I croaked.

"It's Monday." He said, curtly, "Monday the eighth."

"Are you serious?" I stammered, "That's nearly two weeks."

"Draco, when was the last time you ate?" Harry asked anxiously. I racked my brain again.

"At your place," I mused. I was delirious with hunger and cabin fever, and I was sure that I reeked of booze and despair, but Harry didn't seem too repulsed; just concerned. My focus was fading in and out. Potter was blurry again. He sighed.

"I'll be right back," he said and suddenly I was alone again, unsure of whether or not the encounter had really taken place.

One thing was for sure: the pain of seeing Harry outmatched whatever joy I felt (and believe me, there was quite a bit of joy) at his return. I reached for the bottle once again without bothering to use a glass and got out of bed for the first time in days. My comforter came with me as I stumbled into the bathroom. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror and immediately wished that I hadn't. The Draco looking back at me was a horrible mess. His face was gaunt; his eyes were sunken, bloodshot and droopy with deep purple bruise-like circles underneath. His hair was stringy and stuck to his scalp, wet with a sheen of perspiration. _And Potter had seen me like this? _I was mortified. I jumped into the shower, hoping to wash the shame and filth from my body and then dried off and dressed myself in a clean set of clothes and some dignity. My legs, unused to any kind of physical exertion, were wobbly after eleven days of atrophying, but they carried me to my kitchen, where Harry was waiting with a hot cup of tea and some food that I devoured before I could register anything else. It was a long while before he spoke.

"I'm sorry," he said, catching me off-guard. I stared at him.

"Really," he continued, "You were right. It was wrong of me to keep things from you. I was afraid of what you'd think of me if you knew about… about everything. But I was stupid. You've been nothing but wonderful to me and you deserve to know the truth, even if you don't want to hear it now."

"What makes you think I don't?" I asked him. He smiled weakly.

"You're so much better than I deserve," he muttered, "I was so stupid for letting something like this ruin us; selfish, too. While I was so wrapped up in keeping my past a secret from you, I'd never once thought to ask you about yours."

"There's not much to it," I lied.

"I'll bet there is," Harry mused.

"Does it matter now?" I asked. Harry bit his lip.

"Draco, I don't know if I'm too late or not, but I want to try and fix this." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a glass phial. A silvery-white substance was floating inside of it, not quite liquid, not quite gas, but certainly not a solid. He handed it to me.

"This will show you everything," he said, "Everything that's made me who I am. I want you to know me, Draco; all of me. I want you to know why I am the way I am."

"I don't know, Harry," I said apprehensively. He sighed again.

"I understand," he said, "Whatever you wind up doing is fine, but I'm going to leave the memory with you, so you always have the option to look. And if you watch it and decide to forgive me…" His cheeks flushed a delicate shade of red, "well, I'll be waiting for you. You'll always have me as an option.

"I'm so sorry," he said again, and then he left, and I was alone in my kitchen with Potter's memories for company.

My pride was what kept me from pouring the contents of the phial into my Pensieve, but that only lasted for about ten minutes or so. After those first initial moments, I was tearing my closet apart for that stone basin, and once I'd found it, I'd released Harry's past into it, diving beyond the silvery surface with a sharp intake of breath, and being thrust forward into Harry's carefully-ordered memories.

I say _carefully ordered _because the first memory was Potter's most recent memory before coming to visit me today. It was of Harry looking in the mirror, relaying a message to me.

"Draco," the memory Potter said, "You're about to see my life story laid out in front of you. There's a reason behind every single one of these memories that I picked to show you. Please try to be of an open mind. I'm so sorry for any pain I've caused you and I love you, Draco; I really, really do."

Harry put the tip of his wand to his head and a silvery strand emerged. As Harry placed it into the phial, everything began to blur and the memory shifted to a much, much earlier one.

I now stood in what appeared to be a kitchen in a house unlike any that I've ever seen. _Muggles_. The thought of them made me sick. This must have been where Harry grew up. A woman entered from the hall, followed by two small children; a fat, unpleasant demon of a boy, and a scrawny, small, bespectacled child that I recognized to be Harry. Both children seemed to be about five years old.

"Please Aunt Petunia," said the younger Harry, "Please can't I eat something?"

"Shut your mouth, you ungrateful child." Snapped Harry's aunt, "We fed you this morning."

"But I'm so hungry!" Harry whined and she ignored him. He clutched his stomach in agony as he watched her set a plate in front of the larger boy. He continued to protest until she finally screeched,

"Get to your cupboard, _now_!" and Harry had no choice but to march off in the direction that her finger was pointing. I followed behind, wondering what this cupboard was; a time-out zone maybe? And then, I kid you not, the poor kid opened up a door that led to a cupboard under the fucking stairs. His aunt _locked _him in, and Harry stayed there all night, quietly sobbing to himself, before passing out from sleepiness and hunger pains. The memory faded and another one began.

It was several years later, in the same house. It must have been winter because there was a Christmas tree in their sitting room. A man; Harry's uncle, I presume, unhooked the latch that locked the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry emerged, still looking far-too-famished. This worried me; he was starting to get too big for that cupboard. He was maybe eight years old now, and he hurried through breakfast, trying to get out of the house as fast as he could. I followed close behind, jogging to keep up. He broke into a sprint and I had to run to catch up with him. He was head off though, by a pair of mean-looking boys. Several more appeared, surrounding him. I watched from outside of the ring as two held him down while the rest pummeled him senseless. I screamed at them to stop, but it did no good; I was invisible and inaudible to them. And when Potter went home, his aunt and uncle punished _him _for fighting; meanwhile I recognized his cousin as one of the boys who had hurt him. No meals for a week, locked in the cupboard at all times except for school. And when he was at school, he found no kindness there. His cousin's gang beat up on him all the time. I wanted to rescue him myself.

And then it changed again and we were at a Muggle zoo, and Harry seemed to be around the age of eleven; just about to start Hogwarts, though Harry didn't seem to know he was a wizard. In fact, Harry looked so excited to be there that it seemed like it was his first time anywhere other than school or his cupboard. He was still ghostly pale and sickly skinny. His face was practically pressed against the glass of some tank. I moved closer until I understood what he was doing. He was talking to a snake, though he didn't know how or why the snake was able to talk back. And suddenly Harry blinked and the glass disappeared from the tank and to Harry's bewilderment, the snake escaped. Harry was somehow blamed. This made me laugh; Harry had performed magic on his own accord without even realizing it. He had the ability to talk to snakes and he didn't even know it.

Much to my displeasure (though not to my surprise), Harry was locked in his cupboard for practically a month. It made me sick with rage and sorrow. I couldn't believe it, that the savior of our world had no idea who he was. Everybody knew his name, had come to worship him practically, and he was nothing more than an underfed prisoner. How could the boy who defeated the most powerful dark wizard of our time be getting locked into cupboards and pulverized on a daily basis? It didn't make any sense, but the next memory only confirmed it more, that Harry Potter was completely clueless and pitiful.

"You're a wizard, Harry." Said that oaf, Hagrid. I watched Harry's confused, yet mystified expression as Hagrid told him about the world that we shared now. And then his aunt freaked out and let slip that Harry's parents had been murdered.

"Blown up?" Harry said, "You told me my parents died in a car crash."

"A car crash?" Hagrid bellowed, "A _car crash _kill Lily and James Potter? It's an outrage; a scandal!"

I then watched Potter learn the story of his parents' death, of who he was, of how he got that scar. I'd heard the story a million times growing up, but seeing it through Potter's eyes, as though it were the first time, was entirely different. I felt everything that Harry felt; his memory dictated the emotional climate. It was moving.

Things shifted again.

This next memory was tinged with love; I could feel that before it even began. I followed Potter into a shop in Diagon Alley and met a great surprise. I was looking at a younger version of myself. I remembered this in my own memories: the first time I ever met Harry. It was strange to see it from his point of view. The way he remembered me was so much better than how I remembered myself back then. As I watched, I could see that he was already attracted to me, though I didn't know it then. When the eleven-year-old me left, and Madam Malkin turned her back to Harry, I watched him adjust himself quickly. I laughed. So, I gave little Harry a stiffy? This amused me.

And then we were on the Hogwarts Express and I got to watch Harry and the Weasel bond. He was Harry's first friend ever and then I busted in and tried to ruin it. I wanted to kick my eleven-year-old self in the shins for acting that way. I compared his memory of this moment to mine, and wondered if I should someday show him my version of what happened. To Harry, this was clearly a memory of annoyance, despite his obvious attraction to me. For me, it was very different. I wanted so badly to be Potter's friend and had let my stupid big mouth ruin my chances just because I had been so nervous and Weasley had gotten under my skin. I never quite got over that embarrassment. Nobody could hurt my pride like Harry could.

I watched several more memories of our first year, laughing fondly as I recalled our first flying lesson together. Now I didn't mind seeing Harry outdo me in everything I did. It was strange, watching him with this kind of pride. He really was something.

Another memory: Harry was standing in front of a mirror in an abandoned classroom. I approached it so I would be able to read the inscription on top of it. _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. _I was mildly surprised; this was the Mirror of Erised. I'd heard of it before, of course; it was a legend, after all. I knew that the inscription on top translated to, "I show not your face but your hearts desire". This fabled mirror showed the viewer whatever their deepest, innermost desires were. Curious, I took a step closer to see what Harry saw when he looked in the mirror and again, found myself rather touched.

Harry's reflection was surrounded by members of his family. I recognized Lily and James Potter from various photos I had seen in Harry's home. I watched his expression as he watched the members of his family. I could feel my heart tearing inside my chest. Harry's winsome smile was coupled with an aching sadness that was clearly visible in the pale features of his face. However, my breath hitched when I stole another glance at the mirror.

At first, I tried to tell myself that the reason I was reflected in the mirror was because I was standing there, looking into it; though I knew that because this was a memory, I shouldn't be able to see myself there. Then, I thought that maybe Harry, in his boyish desperation for family, had wanted a brother. But if that was the case, then he was much more likely to choose Ron as his family, because Harry and I loathed each other at that age. I watched closely. Harry's reflection put an arm around my reflection's waist. Our lips met briefly and our eyes filled with adoration instead of lust, instead of hatred. Lily's eyes shone with tears as she welcomed my reflection into the family.

The memory shifted again, and while I caught another glimpse of Harry's life, I let it hit me: he had loved me from the beginning. I could feel my heart expand with warmth as I watched Harry grow up before my eyes. He showed me all sorts of memories from the seven years we spent at Hogwarts. Some were very brief, lasting only a few seconds; some felt like they spanned for days. However inconsequential, I savored every minute of it. Harry was letting me become a part of his life in ways that nobody else could. I got to see inside his head and witness every little detail of these clips of his life.

And so I watched him face Voldemort for the first time since he was a baby, and I shuddered in fear. I saw the dramatic difference between his home life and his school life during the summer after our first year, and I marveled in revulsion. At school, he was the golden boy that everybody loved, adored, and worshipped. At home, though out of his cupboard, he was still prisoner. (Those filthy Muggles actually put _bars _on his windows! Where did they think they were, in bloody Azkaban?) I saw the joy in his eyes when the red-headed Weasley clan helped him break free, and watched for a brief moment while they followed the Hogwarts Express in a flying car. I enjoyed watching our duel, happily remembering the sparks that flew between us then, and grinning when I thought of the _other _kind of sparks that flew between us the past few months. I watched my face closely while Harry spoke to the serpent that I had produced. I never actually admitted to Harry how attractive I found those guttural hissing sounds that he made, but it was obvious and visible on my face, even then. I saw that Potter was secretly impressed when I'd revealed to him that I was the new Slytherin Seeker. He also showed me the memory of the first time he'd heard the phrase _Mudblood_. I winced at this memory. I had been such a fool. Then I watched Potter face off Tom Riddle and the basilisk. I had to hand it to him; he really was quite a hero.

The first memory of our third year made quite an impact on me; Harry's first time seeing a Dementor. Hearing what Harry heard in his head, well, it would be enough to make anybody faint. I felt sickly ashamed of myself for how I'd ridiculed him for it, but the memory changed fast, not wanting to linger on the bad, and I was glad for it. I was able to experience his worry for me when that stupid hippogriff attacked me, and I saw the relationship that grew between him and the werewolf. I watched Harry make use of his invisibility cloak and Marauder's Map to get into Hogsmeade, compliments of the Weasley twins. I was intrigued by the scene I saw with him and Sirius Black, and I wanted to cry when I watched his hopes of having a home somewhere other than that awful Muggle place get taken away from him when Pettigrew escaped.

It surprised me that Harry didn't add in any memories of the Quidditch World Cup before our fourth year. From that year, he showed me only three memories; all very brief. The first was the night the Goblet of Fire spat a tongue of flame forth with a piece of charred parchment that brandished his name. I could practically hear his thoughts and they all screamed, _I didn't want this!_ The next was of Hermione Granger, clutching onto him, sobbing; the negative attention they'd received from the press having gotten to her. For all these years, I had thought that Potter _loved _the attention he received, that he'd brought all that glory upon himself. It was obvious to me now, though, that it was the exact opposite. I felt chagrined; I owed him a huge apology.

Harry lingered for a while on the next memory, though I wished he hadn't. This was the night that Voldemort came back. Sickened, I watched Cedric Diggory die and Tom Riddle resurrect, bringing shadows of Harry's parents with him later on. Harry narrowly escaped and _nobody had believed him_. I couldn't even imagine how Potter must have felt for those long months afterwards; with everyone calling him a liar.

I saw Harry save his cousin from the Dementors. I watched the strange connection between Harry's and Voldemort's minds; saw, as though they had been my own, the visions and dreams that Harry had. I watched him question the loyalties of his friends, the motives of Dumbledore, and the soundness of his mind. I watched him kiss a girl for the first time and found it humorous and mildly repulsing. I watched the members of Dumbledore's Army improve their skills at alarming rates under Harry's instruction, and I watched the closest person Harry ever had to family disappear behind the veil of death, with my own aunt to blame for it.

And then, as though Harry had figured that I would have had enough sadness by now, the memory switched to a lighter-hearted one, over the summer at the Weasley dump. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and those twins Fred and George were smoking pot and drinking copious amounts of alcohol outside in the gnome garden. Hermione was acting paranoid (no surprise there) and Ron was, well, a belligerently drunk moronic ginger kid, not that that was anything new. Fred and George were making cracks at Harry.

"Bet you he's never even snogged a girl." One of them said. I couldn't tell the difference.

"I have so!" Harry retorted rather loudly.

"Really now?" Said the other twin in an uppity mock-Harry tone.

"Yes," he replied, "Though I didn't quite like it."

"Didn't like it?" Hermione quipped, "But it was Cho!"

She said _Cho _like it the most obvious fact in the world. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"And?" said Ron, "She was a crying, bloody wreck!"

"But Harry's fancied her for ages, haven't you Harry?" Hermione said.

"Yeah sure," Harry laughed, waving her off.

"You know Fred, I'd wager that Harry Seeks for the other team, if you catch my drift."

"Excuse me?" Harry gasped, choking on his drink.

"I bet you're right, George," said Fred, eyeing Harry mischievously, "So is that it, then? Harry Potter fancies blokes?"

"I most certainly do not!" Harry yelled, still giggling. The twins exchanged a look.

"What's the matter, Harry?" Fred taunted, leaning in closer to him now, "Never kissed a boy before?"

Harry faltered momentarily and Fred kissed Harry right on the mouth, prompting me to vomit a little bit in the back of my throat. Harry pulled away after a moment, blushing and breathing heavily.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Harry hissed. Fred smiled and turned to his twin.

"He's definitely a pouf." He faced Harry, "Drunk or not, mate, you don't kiss a boy like _that _unless you really fancy having another bloke's—"

"OY!" Ron interrupted them, "Blimey, Harry, you're into blokes?"

"Honestly Ron," he said rounding on him angrily, but then suddenly smiling, "You are so fucking slow."

He kissed his best friend on the lips playfully and Ron pushed him off.

"I love you, mate," he said, "But if you do that again, I'll curse your nuts off."

They all laughed and nobody seemed to judge him for being gay. Maybe they assumed it was just the alcohol, though he didn't deny it when Fred and George joked about his sexuality. He only got upset when they threatened to expose him to the rest of Hogwarts.

"Don't worry," Ginny said, "If people start thinking that you're gay, I can always pretend to be your girlfriend. People have been expecting it anyway."

"Thanks Ginny, I might take you up on that." Said Harry, leaning in to kiss her too as the memory thankfully began to fade into the next one. The idea of him kissing nearly half of the Weasley offspring within the same five minutes of each other made me nauseous and I was grateful to change the channel, so to speak, on Harry's memories.

Memory after memory ensued, and they were beginning to speed up now, as was my desire to finish watching them so I could find Harry, the real, present-day Harry, and hold him and tell him how sorry I was for walking out on him. I wanted protect him from his past, where nobody from Aunt Petunia to Voldemort could hurt him. However, they continued.

I was enthralled with the memories of his sixth year obsession with me. Hurtful to me as my memories of that year were, I was enraptured with Harry's point of view of what was, in my opinion, the worst time of my life. Harry's need to follow me and know of my whereabouts should have frightened and repulsed me but to see it from Harry's point of view made me understand better. His distrust for me and his attraction to me were a lethal combination for him; his fantasies alive before my eyes now. He couldn't help but wank himself as he followed my little black dot on the Marauder's Map. I watched him make up his mind to tell me how he felt about me when he saw my little black dot on the map entering the girls' bathroom where Moaning Myrtle often dwelled.

I braced myself for this next part of the memory; the new spin on it making my heart practically jump out of my chest. He had come in there to tell me that he loved me, or wanted me, or both, and had found me in there, crying and vulnerable. He tried to help me and I attacked him, and he said the first spell that jumped into his head without even knowing what it was, and I watched myself fall in a heap of blood.

And then a new memory came on, and this time Potter was the bloody one; a blade slicing into his arms and his thighs and stomach as he cried my name. The memory switched as I choked back a scream. Then Dumbledore was being laid into his tomb and Harry's mind was filled with silence.

The next set of memories flew by in a blur; and I watched the finer points of Harry's search for Horcruxes with Granger and Weasley; their victories and blunders, narrow escapes and close calls. There was a brief flash of the Malfoy manner and I gulped, but the memory changed again and again and again; flashes of locations, of words, of images: Harry laying a wreathe over his parents' graves, Rob stabbing a locket with a sword, the three of them bursting into the sky on a dragon, my old house elf Dobby with a knife in his heart, and finally, Potter holding a golden Snitch to his lips and whispering,

"I'm about to die."

This memory did not shift into a new one. I watched Harry's parents, godfather, friends and Order members appear around him and I watched him sacrifice himself to Voldemort. I leaned in close enough to hear the exchange that went on between him and my mother; telling a lie about Harry's death in exchange for news of my wellbeing.

"Is Draco alive?" she whispered.

"Yes," Harry said. My mother stood up and announced that Harry Potter was dead. I followed them as Hagrid carried him back into the castle and watched the battle take place exactly as I had remembered it, understanding a bit better now that Harry had literally _died_ for us. And then Voldemort was no more.

The memory faded and they started to flicker by quite quickly now; the relationship that he and I had formed; how he waited up for me to come every night, how eager Harry was to be with me; how he never seemed to want me to leave. I bit my lip and tried to contain my joy. I watched our relationship progress as Harry filled with worry about revealing his past to me and he beat himself up over our distance. And finally, I watched him watch me leave him; the scene from eleven days ago playing around me now. His face crumpled as soon as I disappeared. And then suddenly I felt as though I were doing a back-flip in slow motion, as my head reared itself out of the Pensieve.

The head rush I got did nothing to help my hangover and I had to hold on to my kitchen table to steady myself. I glanced at the clock in surprise; I had been watching those memories for almost three hours. Sitting down in a chair, I began to think. What was I to do next? There were several options.

The Malfoy instinct, of course, had part of me wanting to run in the opposite direction, though Malfoys never ran. But Harry had hurt my pride by not telling me in the first place, and a Malfoy's trust is hard to gain; nearly impossible if it's been lost. Naturally, my other instinct was to run back to him, eagerly awaiting his open arms, which seemed warm and inviting after the eleven day absence. And then a bizarre thought ran through my head. _What if-? _But no, that would be ridiculous. Surely, Potter wouldn't want—

But what if he did?

I sat at my kitchen table, wondering idly what Harry would think if he saw _my _past. There were dark things there; my childhood wasn't as wonderful as everybody assumed it was, and of course there was the whole time when I'd been coerced into being a Death Eater; that wasn't an easy time of my life. But still, this was my past and they were my memories. They formed me and they shaped me, and if Harry and I were going to continue a relationship, then he had a right to know, especially after so graciously letting me into his mind like he just had for three hours.

I set myself up with a piece of parchment and a quill and began to brainstorm. Which memories would I show him? What parts of my life were important enough to let him in on? What bits of my past best shaped me to who I was now? I wanted Harry to see my secrets, even the ones that nobody else knew, and I wanted him to know how I had felt about him over the years. My quill began to scribble furiously; creating a list with surprising vigor, almost unconsciously on my part.

The entire process of picking out memories, editing the list, putting them in order, and getting each memory out of my brain and into the phial took about an hour, maybe longer. There was so much that I wanted to show him, which made it hard to choose. Eventually I was able to collect my thoughts and attach a letter to the leg of my owl, along with a small parcel containing a carefully wrapped glass phial… but not before reading over the letter once more.

_Potter,_

_Since we're being so honest, I figured I'd lay all my cards out on the table too. Sorry if some of them are repeats from your batch of memories._

_ I'll let you decide for yourself __**after **__you've seen everything and have had time to think it over, but if the offer still stands, then yes, I'd really like to try to work things out. _

_ Still Yours,_

_ Malfoy_

My owl set off for Harry's with the letter and memory and I let out a nervous sigh. I worried about what Potter would think of my past, which wasn't as pretty as he probably assumed it was. I started cleaning my apartment, doing my best to calm my nerves. I'd find out soon enough, either way; might as well be productive while I passed the time. What else? All that was left to do was wait.

[[ [[Harry]] ]]

Draco never understood why I didn't want to talk about my dreams. Those nightmares woke me up on a regular basis. I don't know if I screamed or not; they had seemed so real. Draco's arms always found their way around me when this happened every night. He'd run his fingers through my hair or down my spine, diligently and with purpose until I was calm enough to fall back to sleep. At first, that was more bizarre than the dreams, but I quickly grew accostummed to his presence. After a short time, I found that I was dependent on it. And after a while, I wasn't sure how I had ever gotten on without him.

Draco was the last person I ever expected to see the day after I defeated Voldemort, but nevertheless, he was the one who had found me sitting outside of the castle in anguish and he was the one who comforted me. Like he had the night before, after the Feindfyre incident, he started kissing me; though not with the same sick kind of desperation. I didn't question it; I reveled in it. This was what I needed. What's more was that he _continued _to keep coming back to me, every single night. I never expected him to stay, which was why I never asked him to return. I would just say thank you in the morning and he'd nod curtly and I'd watch him go, hoping beyond hope that he'd come back once it got dark.

But then he told me that he loved me, and my whole world shifted. I slept through the entire night without any problems and woke up feeling refreshed. Grudgingly, I admitted my feelings for him the next morning, and once I was positive that he truly reciprocated them (as opposed to only saying it to make me feel better when I was upset), I asked him to come back earlier, before my nighttime regiment of terror began and I succumbed to all my demons. Despite the mess that I was at night, I was actually rather functional during the day, and I wanted Draco to see that side of me as well. I wanted him to know that there was a chance at happiness for us. And considering the circumstances; what with everything that had happened only several short weeks beforehand; not to mention all that had happened in the past few years, I was pretty damn happy. If that was as good as my life was ever going to get, I would have been completely okay with that.

But that wasn't enough for Draco. He was in a much better mental place than I was; he was ready to trust and be trusted. He picked up the pieces for me every night when I broke down and he was the glue that held me together at all other times. What amazed me more was how happy he was to do it. _That's just what you're supposed to do when you love somebody_, he'd always reply, like it was really that simple. He wanted me to open up to him, to confide in him what those dreams were about, so that he could "help" me. And I definitely owed him that.

But you see; those dreams… Well, they're just not subjects that should ever be spoken of. Not to somebody you loved.

They were all the same at the core, though the details always changed: they had the same underlying themes and motives. Different subjects and specimens served for the dream's antagonist; sometimes the shadowy figure of a Dementor, or the high pitched cackle of Lord Voldemort, or the muffled whisper from beyond a curtained archway, or the brandished index finger of my Aunt Petunia. It was different every night, but they were all tinged with hopelessness, loss, guilt, and fear. When I jerked awake, I was then a helpless victim to the aftershock of it all; brought on in a fit of sobbing and trembling. And all Draco wanted to do was help and make it better, but I wouldn't let him.

He left after a while, once he saw that I was a lost cause. I should have seen it coming; it was my own damn fault. He had given me so much; only asking for one thing in return, which was for my own benefit anyway. I owed that to him, at least, and yet had failed to give it to him. I didn't deserve him or his kindness. He was better off leaving anyway. Really. I knew I wasn't worth it.

Still, I can't say that I wasn't the tiniest bit surprised when he left. He had been so supportive, so consistent this whole time, that I had a bit of a hard time accepting the fact that he was gone. When I awoke in the morning, I reached over; expecting to feel his warm body next to me, but my hand grasped nothing but cold, empty sheets. I spent the whole day wondering if he was going to come back that night, just like he always did. But two days passed and he didn't return, and I went into some form of shock. Denial took over for several days, which turned into a mixture of sadness and anger; both with him and myself. And then once I came to terms with the fact that I had to be the one to either chase after him or let him go, I became determined. I gathered my memories together and set off for Draco's.

His apartment looked abandoned when I entered it after knocking on the door for about twenty minutes. For a second, I wasn't even sure if I had the right flat, but the dust-laden photographs proved to me that this was the place. I made my way down the corridor, noticing an open door at the end. Glancing in, I saw some blonde hair sticking out from a heap of blankets on the bed. I entered his bedroom and kneeled down next to him. The smell in the room was awful; full of booze and piss and gloom. I shook Draco awake. He sat up, opening his eyes, looking blearily around, and let me tell you, the man looked like a skeleton.

"What the hell happened to you?" I asked him.

Drinking. He'd been drinking for the past eleven days. He hadn't had a scrap of food since that last dinner at my house and he hadn't left his bed for days. He barely knew his own name. But I sobered him up, got some food into him, taking care of him the way he took care of me, until I was able to say my piece. Then, after giving him the glass container full of my memories, I left him there and went home to wait out the storm.

It happened quicker than I expected it to. I assumed that Draco would've needed days, maybe even weeks to think it over; but his owl was tapping on my window merely hours after I had left. I tore the letter from its outstretched leg as my eyes hungrily took in every word.

_Potter,_

_Since we're being so honest, I figured I'd lay all my cards out on the table too. Sorry if some of them are repeats from your batch of memories._

_ I'll let you decide for yourself __**after **__you've seen everything and have had time to think it over, but if the offer still stands, then yes, I'd really like to try to work things out. _

_ Still Yours,_

_ Malfoy_

_ Still yours. _Well, that was a relief. It was much more than I could have asked for, that's for sure. I read over the letter again several times. He said he wanted to try to work things out, but only _after _I had time to think it over. But I had proposed working things out in the first place, so why did I have to…

My eyes trailed over to the package that his owl carried. Tearing off the paper, I discovered a small glass phial, not unlike the one I had given him, occupied by the silvery substance of memories. _Draco's _memories. Without thinking, I grabbed my Pensieve from the cabinet in the dining room and proceeded to thrust myself forward into the swirling contents of Draco's past. My feet landed on solid ground. A memory of Draco spoke to me.

"Alright, Potter," he said, "You showed me your whole past, and that's more than I ever could have asked from you. It's only fair that I show you mine. It's not very pretty and I'm not proud of a lot of it, but it's all behind me now. I'm sorry that I left you, Harry. Thank you for opening up to me. I love you."

The memory shifted, and I was thrown back in time. I found myself on the grounds of a luxurious estate that I recognized as the Malfoy Manor. The perfectly manicured lawn stretched over several acres. Lucius Malfoy and a man I did not recognize were being served tea by a pair of house-elves. A small Draco, maybe about six years old, was trying desperately to get his father's attention.

"Not now, Draco; I'm busy." Lucius said, shaking the boy off of his arm, "Go play inside."

"But _Dad_," Draco whined, dragging out the nasally _aaaaah_, "I really can do it. Look, I can show you, just-"

"Not now son," he barked, shoving Draco away from him.

The force was enough to send the young Draco stumbling backwards. He scowled at his father, who had already turned his back to him, and took off in the opposite direction. I followed after him, walking behind him enough to hear him grumbling to himself.

"I'll show him," he enthused to nobody, "Yeah, he'll be so proud when he sees that I can fly…"

And then, having reached a shed, Draco, happy with reaching his destination, mounted a broom and took off. He hovered for a few seconds, gaining his balance, and then he proceeded to fly just a short distance away from Lucius and his guest. He started gaining altitude, little by little.

"Look at me, Dad!" he called from maybe twelve feet off the ground. The man didn't even acknowledge him.

"Dad," Draco yelled, a little louder, "Dad, look!"

His father still didn't turn around. Draco was clearly frustrated. He continued to circle lazily, climbing higher and higher, until he was finally noticed, though not by the one whose attentions he was clamoring for. His mother stepped out of the house.

"Draco Malfoy, you get down from there this instant!" yelled Narcissa, "Just what in God's name do you think you're doing?"

"But look, mom, I can do it!" Draco protested, "Really, look at me mom!"

Narcissa watched in fear as her child climbed higher into the sky. She yelled and carried on but Draco wouldn't come down; for his father still wasn't paying attention to him. He decided to step up his game; brow furrowing in concentration. He took the leap.

"Look, Mother; no hands!"

It happened nearly instantaneously: Draco let go of his broom and he immediately lost control. He fell through the air and landed on the ground; his right leg splayed at an odd angle. It was hard to tell who was screaming louder; between Draco's pained sobs and his mother's frantic screeches. As Draco was rushed inside to be healed, his mother turned to Lucius, who still had yet to look up from his conversation.

"You were supposed to be watching him," she accused.

Mr. Malfoy finally turned around; seeming heavily irritated that somebody had dare interrupt him.

"He'll be fine," he drawled.

"Some father you are," she spat at him, and then hurried inside to look after her son. I followed her. She sat young Draco down on a stool and proceeded to mend his leg. His cheeks were flushed and tear-stained from crying. He continued to sniffle as she worked her wand, chiding him for flying on the broom when he knew he wasn't supposed to.

"Mommy?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Yes darling?" she said, still fussing over his leg, though it was already healed and didn't bother him anymore.

"Why doesn't Daddy love me?"

"Don't be silly; of course he loves you." Narcissa said, smiling benevolently at her son. However, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned downward very quickly.

"But he doesn't even look at me!" Draco said, his voice filled with sorrow. A pained look shot through Narcissa's face, but she quickly faked another smile.

"Oh sweetheart, you know how Daddy doesn't like to be disturbed when he has his work friends over." She said soothingly.

There was a crash and Draco's father entered the kitchen, seething. Draco jumped and Narcissa's hand tightened on Draco's shoulder instinctively.

"What did I tell you," Lucius annunciated slowly and quietly, "about interrupting me when I'm working?"

Draco's face had a strange pair of emotions playing across it. He seemed terrified yet hopeful. I would have been terrified too if a man like Lucius Malfoy was scolding me as a child, so Draco's fear was only natural. But the way he beamed concerned me. It was as if Draco was _happy _that his father was speaking to him this way. But maybe, in Draco's eyes, the terror was worth it if it meant that his father paid any kind of attention to him. He dropped his gaze to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said, sounding properly ashamed. His father was still not happy.

"And you," he spat, rounding on Narcissa, "How _dare_ you embarrass me in front of my business contact?

Narcissa tried to reach for her wand, but Lucius's hand had already seized her throat. His other hand curled into a fist and he raised it to strike. He brought it down on her hard and the shriek that erupted from her was enough to make my hair curl. Young Draco threw himself in front of his mother, but his father struck him too, and he landed on the ground with a colossal black eye besmirching his pale face.

"Run Draco!" Narcissa called.

Lucius reared back his arm again as the memory shifted. I was horrified. I always knew that Lucius Malfoy certainly wasn't the world's greatest father, but never in all my life had I dreamed that he beat his wife and kid. The way Draco had always seemed to _worship _him throughout his adolescence just didn't add up right. But I guess one can get used to anything. A child is going to love his father no matter what, right?

This next memory took place in Draco's bedroom. He couldn't have been much older than he had been in the last memory if he was any older at all. He sat on his bed, hugging his knees. There was a timid knock on the door and Draco quickly lied down, pretending to be asleep. His mother entered.

"Draco," she whispered, "Draco, it's alright now. He's gone."

She sat down at the foot of his bed and little Draco sat up. Narcissa, seeing that the boy had been crying, quickly scooped him up into her lap and wrapped her arms around him, rocking back and forth.

"It'll be okay," she cooed, "Someday, you'll go off to Hogwarts and you won't have to deal with him."

"But what about you?" he asked, "Mom, why can't we just leave? We don't need him."

"I wish it were that easy," she said, "But we can't. We're bound by magic to him, the both of us. But don't you worry; Mommy's here. I'll protect you."

The memory faded again and I wondered what purpose that memory served. I figured that he was probably establishing his relationship with his parents for me: mom was good, dad was bad. Draco's protective instincts when it came to his mother made much more sense now. I watched as the new memory formed around me.

The second this memory began, I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that this was going to be worse than the previous ones. Draco was still young, perhaps eight or nine years old. He sat on the edge of his bed, reading a book. There was a cut across his left cheek and there were finger-shaped bruises around his neck from the last time his father had gotten to him. He looked up when he heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," Draco called, dog-earing the corner of the page to mark his place and resting the book on his bed. His father entered. My blood turned to ice.

"Come," Lucius commanded. Draco followed, eager to appease him.

They made their way down the stairs without speaking to each other. Turning a corner, they entered a dimly-lit parlor where a man in his mid-forties stood, waiting. He wore navy blue robes and a sinister expression.

"Is this the boy?" the man asked.

"Indeed," Lucius nodded, "Draco, this is Mr. Boyd."

"How do you do, Mr. Boyd?" Draco said automatically, sticking out his hand with the Pureblood kind of refinement that had no doubt been instilled in his brain since birth. The man named Boyd ignored Draco's outstretched hand and grabbed his chin instead, examining him as though Draco was a horse that he was looking to buy.

"You've got yourself a deal, Malfoy," Boyd said after a moment, taking his eyes and hands from the child. The two men shook on it and Lucius gave Draco a curt nod without meeting his eyes before exiting the room and shutting the door behind him. Draco moved to follow after his father, but the new man stopped him.

"And just where do you think you're going?" asked Mr. Boyd. Draco halted and faced the man.

"I'm sorry, sir." Draco replied, "I just thought-"

"You're mine now," cooed the man, reaching out to caress Draco's face. He tried to side-step him, but Boyd pushed him against the wall, and then pushed himself on top of him. Draco let out a yell.

"Don't fight it," said Boyd, "Your daddy's not going to come for you."

Draco continued to struggle and protest but Boyd easily overpowered him. He smacked him across the face, making Draco cry out, but at least stay still. He pulled the boy close to him and whispered in his ear.

"Don't make me do that again, Draco." Boyd said almost endearingly, "I don't want to hurt you, Draco. Let's do this the easy way. Just stay still."

And I guess after all his experience with his father, Draco knew that the man was serious and that it would be safer for him if he just took whatever it was that this man was about to inflict upon him. He braced himself, waiting for a spell or a punch or a kick, but it didn't come. Instead, Boyd unzipped his pants and moved Draco over to the couch.

I cannot begin to describe the atrocities that took place in that room next. When it was over, Draco lay trembling and bloody in a corner as the infectious human waste that was Mr. Boyd checked his hair in a mirror by the coat rack. Draco, robbed of his innocence and virginity, crawled over to the trash bin and vomited. Mr. Boyd walked directly past him without sparing a glance, and then apparated out of Malfoy Manor.

I ripped my head out of the Pensieve before I could see anything else. Call me a coward, but I didn't want to witness another second of this. It could have only gotten worse from there and my stomach just couldn't handle that. Leaving the Pensieve on the table with Draco's twisted past inside of it, I apparated directly into his kitchen. He was standing there at the stove stirring a pot of some kind of sauce, which had spilled onto his shirt. My sudden appearance must have startled him. He grabbed a dish towel off the counter and started to wipe up the mess.

"Shit Potter," he mumbled, dabbing at his shirt. He glanced at the clock, "Wasn't expecting to hear from you for at least a few more hours."

"I know," I said, feeling embarrassed, "I uh… couldn't make it past the first few memories."

He raised his eyebrows.

"That's a shame," he sniffed, "You missed out on some good ones."

"Like what?" I asked, taking over the stirring of the pot while he washed his hands and grabbed something from the fridge.

"Well, of course there are the Hogwarts days;" he drawled, "I'd like you to see my side; what it was like for me to be your rival, to fall in love with you."

"And I'll see it," I promised, "But Draco, your father! He… he…"

"Sold me out?" Draco offered. The expression on his face suddenly became bitter, "Yeah, he sold my body to his business contacts and then sold my free will to Voldemort. He was a worthless piece of scum, Harry. He got what was coming to him."

"It just doesn't make sense," I stuttered.

"Let me break it down for you," Draco said, trying hard to wear the tough mask that he wore back in school, "His creepy black market cohorts agreed to do business with him if, in turn, they got to-"

"_They?_" I cut in, "As in, more than one? It happened more that once?"

"Harry," he said, almost soothingly, "I got raped at least three times a week, every week, for two years."

Suddenly, I was quite sure that I was going to vomit. I stared at him, racking my brain for some piece of information that could falsify this.

"But your mother," I stammered, "Narcissa wouldn't have stood for that."

"We rarely talked about it," he shrugged, "She tried to put a stop to it when she found out but my father had his wand at her throat immediately, so she had to pretend to turn a blind eye to it. Eventually, they did it to her too. If you had continued watching, you would have seen the one time we discussed it. He would have killed us if we tried to escape."

"So what did you do?" I asked once I'd found my voice again, "How did you cope with something like that?"

"I didn't let it get to me," he said, "I told myself that I'd be out of there soon enough and counted down the days till Hogwarts began. Those wizards couldn't touch me there."

"Of course, it had its negative effects," he continued, "The prick that you knew at Hogwarts was a direct result of that, especially after you rejected my offer of friendship. Hogwarts was like Mecca for me, Harry; my personal Shangri-la and salvation. You immediately tarnished it for me. It was like finding out that Santa Claus wasn't real. I had all these hopes about how great Hogwarts was going to be and how my life was going to turn around. Just imagine how great of a start I could have made with Harry Potter as my friend."

He seemed to be talking to himself now, but I listened anyway.

"I'd heard that you were on the train and I practically ran to find you. Famous Harry Potter; the complete opposite of everything my father stood for. If anybody could have set me on the right track, it was you. And then I realized that you were the cute, sweet, charming boy I had met in Diagon Alley at Madame Malkin's. I was so excited to meet you that I started to say the stupidest things."

I braced myself, ashamed of what was coming next.

"But you reminded me of just how worthless I really was. You turned me away and my dreams of a better life were shattered. I did my time in the Slytherin prison, and went home every summer to be held prisoner to my dad and his cohorts… that is, until more pressing matters came up."

"Voldemort?" I asked and he nodded.

"I stopped getting raped when Voldemort returned. But they burned the Mark onto me and I was forced to do their bidding. Father would have it no other way. And I had to do what they said, even though I was in love with you. It was hell. But on the bright side, my dad was finally proud of me."

The last few words were strained and as his voice broke, so did my self-control. The tears cascaded down Draco's face and I pulled him into my arms the way he'd done for me countless times.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, kissing his temple and bringing him closer, "After everything you'd been through, I was always such a prick to you."

"I don't want your pity, Potter," He spat through a sob.

He continued to cry and I held onto him, half-dragging him to his bed so he could at least break down in comfort. Admittedly, I felt awkward and unsure of myself; Draco was so much better at this comfort thing than I was. Thinking back to all those nights that Draco had been there for me, I decided to emulate his methods. I stroked his arm silently, placing the occasional soft kiss on his lips to try and calm him.

That seemed to spark something in Draco. In no time at all, he was kissing me back with a desperate kind of fervor similar to the aftermath of the Feindfyre incident. However, there was no war, no Voldemort, no impending doom to stop us this time. Draco pushed himself against me as our bodies grappled in a heated mixture of passion, grief, love, sorrow, and reunion. Eleven days was far too long. As we made love, he swore over and over that he was never going to leave me again.

The two of us lied back in the bed, feeling spent and radiant. I turned over on my side to look at Draco; he was looking up at the ceiling with a contented smile on his lips; his hands folded politely across his abdomen as though he were happily and leisurely digesting a turkey dinner. He certainly looked peaceful.

"What is it?" I asked once he started chuckling to himself.

"We're really fucked up, Potter." He replied, still laughing, "Like you and I make one _really _messed up couple."

I understood what he meant. Our childhoods had been awful; our families being the worst aspects. I'd been beaten and starved; Draco had been beaten and raped. We'd grown up facing horror after horror, pretending to hate each other, when maybe we could have helped each other.

"Misery loves company," I suggested and he smiled.

"And Draco loves Harry," he said, finally turning onto his side too.

"And Harry loves Draco," I replied, stealing a kiss. Draco held onto my hand, tracing his thumb over my knuckles.

"And Draco has something he'd like to ask Harry," Draco said.

"And Harry would love to hear the question," I replied, enjoying this game. He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning my face."  
"I think we should move in together." He said, dropping the third person talk, "It's unhealthy for you to live in that house with all of those memories and it's unhealthy for me to live in this flat."

"That wasn't really a question," I pointed out. He rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"You never take anything seriously, Potter." He grumbled.

"You still haven't asked me." I chirped, knowing that it would only irritate him.

"Fine Harry," he growled, "Would you like to live together?"

"I'd love that." I answered immediately and he smiled genuinely, "When do we start looking for a place?"

"I'll call the real estate agent tomorrow." He quipped, beaming.

I curled up next to him and he wrapped his arms around me. Feeling exhausted, but certainly at ease, Draco and I drifted off to sleep with the exciting prospect of house-hunting to look forward to in the morning.

I slept peacefully that night. Truthfully, after that, I slept peacefully _every _night.


End file.
